


A Path of Cinders (My Love)

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, No Smut, Quenya Names, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 17:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11949444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: After losing their father and Maedhros, Curufin seduces his older brother.





	A Path of Cinders (My Love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



> Quenya names used:
> 
> Curufinwë/Curvo = Curufin  
> Macalaurë/Cáno = Maglor  
> Tyelcormo = Celegorm  
> Carnistir/Moryo = Caranthir  
> Maitimo/Nelyo = Maedhros
> 
> Many thanks to my beta!

“Brother, why do you torment yourself so?”

The words dissolve into the heavy air inside the tent, don't reach the one they're meant for. Curufinwë halts, the tent-flap still held slightly ajar. Macalaurë sits on their father's chair, next to the small table their father had used as a desk, under the light of one of their father's lamps. He has not touched the meat heaped on a plate next to him. His elbow is propped on the table, his head leans heavily against his closed fist. His gaze is glued to the floor, lost in the flowered grids and whorls woven into the rugs at his feet, their colours as bright as they had been in Valinor. 

Macalaurë has rarely looked more beautiful than he does now, in the fell grip of grief. Curufinwë swallows one last gulp of the fresh breeze from the lake before diving into the oppressive atmosphere of the tent, and into the even more formidable aura of his brother's allure. He circles the table and the chair, barely restraining his mounting excitement, but allowing his eyes to have their fill of his brother's form. He stops behind him. He puts his hands on Macalaurë's shoulders, lightly at first, as if afraid his brother might be startled into a flight by too demanding a touch, by the sort of touch Curufinwë desires. Macalaurë is disoriented, lonely, and vulnerable. Curufinwë could not have asked for a better opening, but he needs to be careful. 

“Cáno,” he calls softly. “Why do you do this? Sitting here by yourself, ignoring your brothers.”

Macalaurë's shoulders are stiff under his hands. Curufinwë gradually increases the pressure of his fingers, meeting Macalaurë's knotted muscles through the fabric of his tunic. He kneads them, his thoughts wandering off while he lets a few seconds go by before speaking again. Ten weeks. Ten weeks have gone by since their father's death and Maitimo's capture, and all of them are still dazed, overwhelmed by disbelief. Macalaurë more than anybody else. He imparts basic orders, mechanically. He listens to complaints and entreats, tries to mend what he can. He meets the envoys from local tribes, accepts their goodwill, smiling false smiles. But when the last one of them has departed, he is back in the tent, like a snail unable to shed the shell of a past life.

“We your brothers are ready to do your bidding, we will support you and assist you. Do not let us go astray.”

He slides his hand up Macalaurë's neck and cups his face. Macalaurë's head tilts back like a doll's. His eyes are dull and glazed, but something moves inside them when they meet Curufinwë's. 

“What happened to Nelyo is not your fault, any more than father's death is. The Dark Foe is the only one responsible for it. You have no reason to blame yourself.”

Curufinwë lets go of Macalaurë's face and throws his arms around his neck, leaning forward, resting his head on top of his older brother's. 

“But it is my fault,” Macalaurë finally speaks. “It is our fault. We should have been firmer, we should not have let Nelyo go.”

“We did all we could to dissuade him.”

“ _I_ had to tell Moringotto's envoys that we would not accept his terms.”

“And you did well.”

“Nelyo –”

“– is dead. Like father,” Curufinwë says, firmly, though the words are like burning coals on his tongue. He doesn't tell his brother that Tyelcormo and the twins have sneaked up to the peaks of Moringotto's fortress, that the darkness there was too thick to press on without light and light would inevitably attract attention to them. Macalaurë doesn't need to know. Curufinwë will tell him at another time, when it will be more useful. Besides, unless Maitimo somehow manages to free himself, he is as good as dead. Curufinwë wonders if that wasn't what Maitimo wanted all along, with his stupid plan to parley with the Enemy. 

Maitimo had known their father the longest. In Curufinwë's case it was 223 years, 3 months, 11 days, 19 hours. And a whole eternity without him, unless he were to die too. Curufinwë lifts his head just in time, to prevent Macalaurë from sensing the sob which crawls up his throat. When he makes to pull his arms away too, Macalaurë grips them.

“Do you not grieve?” he asks, on cue.

“Of course I do,” Curufinwë replies in a shaky voice he doesn't need to fake. “But you are alive, our brothers are, and I am. Cáno, we were always so close, do it for me. You can rely on me. I will stand by you, always, like you did with me in Valinor, and we will watch over our brothers.”

Macalaurë lets go of Curufinwë, with a loud sigh, and bows his head. A pang of shame. Macalaurë doesn't even know where his younger brothers are. They could have been captured too, and he would have been none the wiser. Yet he doesn't ask about them, if they are well or if they are struggling with grief too. He can't carry any more weight. He looks up again, and round at the tent. His father's tent, where his possessions retain his presence, as if it had been part of their make, together with the wood and metal and other materials they had been fashioned of. 

“I should not be here at all,” he murmurs. 

“You are king now,” Curufinwë reminds him, cruelly in a way, except it's not cruelty that drives Curufinwë. “See brother, this is why we must not dwell on our sorrows. It makes us lose sight of who we are.”

Curufinwë places a kiss on Macalaurë's hair, drawing it out until he obtains the shudder he wanted from his brother. Then he circles the chair again, pulls out a stool next to the table, and sits down.

“Do you mind?” He gestures towards the food. “I was worried about you and have not had my dinner yet,” he lies.

He has no appetite for the game Tyelcormo and his hunters kill aplenty, when there are not orcs to hunt down and slaughter, but quickly eats a shred of meat, now cold as a corpse. He holds a larger piece up to Macalaurë, whose hesitation is quickly overcome by Curufinwë's pleading eyes. Macalaurë eats the morsel from his fingers, and chews on it dutifully, and on every other bit Curufinwë offers.

“Curvo.” The nickname rolls off Macalaurë's lips lifelessly, stunted. Macalaurë had always called their father by name, and often used the same nickname with both him and Curufinwë, especially when they got into one of their intellectual disputes. “How can you be so confident?”

Curufinwë licks his lips, purposefully slow, and brings another piece of meat to Macalaurë's mouth. “Father trusted us to fight to the bitter end. I will do it.”

Macalaurë's lips linger on Curufinwë's fingers while he turns the words over in his mind, then he nods. By the end of their shared meal he attempts a smile. He looks sheepish, but grateful at the same time. He lets Curufinwë guide him to their father's bed and accepts his help in getting rid of his clothing. Curufinwë's hands push him down on the furs and cover him with plenty of soft blankets. Macalaurë closes his eyes, and falls asleep to the sound of Curufinwë singing a quiet soothing song, a song Macalaurë himself had taught him.

When Curufinwë walks out, the camp seems utterly still, like the graveyard they dug further down on the lakeside. The guards on watch duty salute him devoutly, and yet timidly, as if he were a ghost or as if he wore the last of their hope on his face. He greets them back, making sure to make eye contact. 

Tyelcormo is lying in his cot but awake in the tent they now share with Carnistir. The twins had shared a tent from the start, but Carnistir had insisted on his own, before solitude became impossible to bear and Curufinwë convinced both him and Tyelcormo to move in with him. That too serves his purpose: there won't be any remarks even if he starts sleeping in Macalaurë's tent. Everyone shares in the grief, closeness and companionship are everybody's natural needs.

Curufinwë crouches down next to Tyelcormo, who rolls over to face him. 

“Has Moryo eaten at all?”

“Not much.”

Curufinwë strains his neck to look at Carnistir. Even from his position he can catch a glimpse of his sunken cheeks. “The twins?”

“They are on the way back from Círdan's town. I finished the fortifications.”

“Good. Rest now.” 

Curufinwë considers visiting his wife and child – he hasn't seen them in days – but the desire for his brother still controls him, sizzling inside him, and the thought of faking normalcy with them isn't tempting at all. 

Neither is sleep, even though one third of the large candle used to mark the time allotted for rest has already burned away. He puts more coals on the brazier, and sits on the chair left next to it. Tiny flames engulf the cinders, tiny flames which surge and dance and soon begin to sputter out. He throws his head back, and covers his eyes with his right arm. He curses Ñolofinwë and his siblings and their mother for the hurt they caused his father, he curses the Teleri, filthy lapdogs of the Valar, he curses the Valar all and their peace and their glory. 

He _has_ to have his brother, at least, his brother who was like a second father to him. 

He starts palming himself through his clothing with his free hand. He has been half-hard since the moment he set his eyes on his brother. He cups his stiffening cock, trying to recall the sensation of Macalaurë's lips meeting his fingers, of his tongue brushing against his fingertips while his teeth grasped food from them. 

He lowers his arm and licks his fingers, ignoring the stale taste of meat on them, while his hips jerk against his groping palm until it becomes uncomfortable. Then he frees his cock, lets spit dribble onto his palm and starts stroking himself. In his mind's eye he sees Macalaurë kneeling between his legs, pleasuring him with his mouth, he sees his moist stretched lips slide up and down his length and slick him, he feels himself being engulfed by the heat of Macalaurë's throat. He brushes his fingers against the head of his cock, and imagines Macalaurë's tongue probing and licking his slit, drinking down his precome. He smears his precome down his length, the up-and-down motion of his hand increasing in speed and desperation. In the heart of his desire he's fucking Macalaurë's throat, and Macalaurë whimpers and hums around him, singing a new song for him alone.

Over the next few days Curufinwë becomes Macalaurë's shadow, sharing almost every waking moment of his life. He is there when Macalaurë wakes up, ready with a bucket of clean water from the lake and a clean change of clothing every other day. He takes care of military and logistic matters with him, and deals with the most prickly or the most boring issues in his stead. He shares his meals. He puts him to bed, staying a little longer every day, nibbling at a little more of his brother's time every day and making it his own. He steals touches, too – pats on his shoulders, a hand on his thighs while they pore over maps together, hands entwined while they walk along the lakeside at the end of the waking day – palm to palm with their sweat mingling, kisses whenever they are alone.

Finally, he sets the stage.

“What's this?” Macalaurë asks, entering his tent one day to find his bed hidden behind makeshift curtains. 

Curufinwë smiles disarmingly up at him. He has had every personal object belonging to Maitimo and their father removed from the tent and hidden away in his own. 

“Just a little luxury to provide you a little more warmth, and to prevent people from walking in on you while you take your rest or a bath,” he says. The blankets mounted on wooden frames are of course meant to screen the bed for when they will make love. Soon. 

They sit opposite each other for dinner. Their legs touch under the table, in a way that is still innocent enough, at least on Macalaurë's part. They eat in silence, but their eyes often meet over their food. Macalaurë tries to parse Curufinwë's thoughts. Curufinwë welcomes the touch of his mind, and swathes it in a warm haze of love, so that Macalaurë is reassured and doesn't press too far.

After the meal, Curufinwë takes Macalaurë's hands in his, washes them clean and massages them, like he did in Valinor after his brother had spent hours trying a new piece of music or rehearsing for a performance. Curufinwë loves Macalaurë's hands. They guided his own hands when he learnt to play on Macalaurë's own lyre, and steadied them when he attempted feats of calligraphy well beyond his ability. He massages the long, shapely fingers, cold and scarred, covers each in kisses. Macalaurë is relaxed, his eyes are closed. Curufinwë places a slow, lingering kiss on each palm before letting the hands go.

Curufinwë ushers Macalaurë behind the curtains, and helps him get ready for sleep like every other day. When he is about to leave, however, Macalaurë looks at him beseechingly from the bed, as if sleeping alone behind the curtains is like being left stranded in an unknown world.

Curufinwë has to steady his voice before making his suggestion, a deliberately ambiguous one. “Do you want me to sleep with you?”

He sees the ghost of a refusal hovering on Macalaurë's lips. He sees, with the same clarity, how Macalaurë quietens the protest of his rational mind and yields to other impulses – loneliness, an inchoate desire, and curiosity perhaps. 

Curufinwë strips down to his breeches, meticulously, not betraying any hurry, and slips into bed. Macalaurë draws him close. Their heads rest on the same pillow. Curufinwë can almost believe the pillow still carries their father's scent. Illusion or not, he sucks it up it along with Macalaurë's warmth, sees it as a blessing. He combs a hand through Macalaurë's curls and presses their foreheads together.

They wake up still in each other's arms, glued to each other in fact. Macalaurë has ejaculated at some point and his seed stains both his and Curufinwë's belly. He looks embarrassed and like he wants to apologise, but Curufinwë prevents him with a kiss.

Curufinwë dresses, wondering how Macalaurë hasn't felt his own erection pressed against him, and goes down to the lake to fetch water. Macalaurë doesn't ask for his help with the washing and Curufinwë is careful not to offer it. 

During the rest of the day Macalaurë's eyes are on him, trying to wrench from his gaze the reason why he didn't look disgusted when he woke up with his older brother's seed splattered all over himself. His gaze has changed, is more focused, and Curufinwë evades the touch of his mind, unsure that he could resist, were Macalaurë to probe too deep. He is unsure he would _want_ to resist. 

“I might get married,” Macalaurë says over dinner. 

Jealousy and rage surge inside Curufinwë too quickly for him to hide them, but he stifles both swiftly enough, and breathes again. It will surely be only a political marriage. An allegiance. No-one will take his brother away from him. 

“If it has anything to do with last night –”

“It does,” Macalaurë interjects, decisive, notes of might floating through his voice. It sends a thrill through Curufinwë. “But in a very superficial way, I suppose. I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was fucking you. That's why I –”

“You want to do it for real?” Curufinwë asks, seizing the chance even as he tells himself he should have been more cautious. 

Macalaurë reaches for him, slips his hand under Curufinwë's chin and studies him for long quivering moments. “...I might.”

Curufinwë lowers his head somewhat. The blush that spreads on his cheeks can pass for bashfulness, rather than satisfaction and anticipation, but his eyes would betray him. Macalaurë's thumb brushes over his cheek, back and forth, and he bites his lower lip. This is the time to play coy, but he must not go too far. He must not appear too innocent; Macalaurë still sees him only as his little brother, and he must not appear too eager and too forward, either. Macalaurë must feel as if the initiative is entirely his. He will surely find out later, when he isn't as confused and as needy. Curufinwë is ready to withstand even some resentment from him, so long as he can have what he wants.

“I told you: I will do _anything_ for you, my beloved Cáno. Just...tell me _what_ you want me to do,” he says, his words dying away in a whisper which makes him sound hesitant.

The objection that it would be too much to ask doesn't come. Empty bowls and glasses clatter on the table as Macalaurë stands up with little ceremony.

He stops in the middle of the tent, and turns to face Curufinwë. “Come”, he commands.

Curufinwë obediently walks over to him and goes down on his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Björk's "Bachelorette".


End file.
